


The Copper Beeches

by thespeckledblonde (residentmuso)



Series: Principia Mathematica et Ars Amatoria [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mystery, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3712663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/residentmuso/pseuds/thespeckledblonde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Watsons are beginning to settle into the relative calm of domestic bliss and child-raising, although the world’s only consulting detective’s elusive presence in their lives ensures things will never be dull. But when the arrival of a young woman, apparently a relative of the real Mary Morstan, threatens their hard-won peace, it is up to Sherlock to salvage the situation. The young lady brings a mystery of her own, however; one which will intrigue both detective and blogger despite themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Copper Beeches

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first published story on AO3! I started writing this story just after season three aired, but then life got in the way and I forgot about it. I rediscovered it while wildly procrastinating the other day and decided I really needed to get a move on before season four aired and it became AU instead of post canon. This story (along with others I hope to finish/write in the future) takes inspiration from the show, in that I am adapting original ACD canon stories for Sherlock's modern-day adventures. As you can see from the title, this is an adaptation of 'The Copper Beeches'. This story will be posted in three parts; I'm not sure when the next two will be up, and I'm afraid as a very busy medical student I can't promise they'll be speedy. But I'll do my best! (And reviews will certainly be taken as strong encouragement haha). But please enjoy, and let me know what you think!

_When will you be back? We need your help._

_We’re not in any immediate danger. But it_ is _somewhat urgent._

_Please reply if you can…??_

 

The living room contained a rather extraordinary quantity of clutter for two such generally sensible people. Between the menagerie of armchairs and sofas, the forest of books and the indulgent number of baby and wedding photographs, there was barely room to get a suitable stride for pacing. But where there was a will, there was a way; so pace he did, around and around the Watsons’ minute living room, contemplating the problem at hand 

John was sitting on the sofa, ostensibly typing up the latest blog entry. But Sherlock had observed John’s tapping fingers and darting eyes. He could practically see his hand twitching for his gun. A distraction seemed in order. He tossed aside the copy of Cosmo he’d been flipping through – an exercise in trying to understand popular culture and a suggestion of Mary’s – and addressed the room.

At least, he addressed John.

“People who love things for their own sake tend to find the greatest pleasure in their basest form. Curious, isn’t it?”

John looked up. “Sorry, what?”

“Take shoes, for example,” he said, warming to the lecture. Excellent. There was no easier way to distract John than to give him the opportunity to applaud his skills. He’d been meaning to broach this subject for a while, anyway. “Mary is quite fond of shoes, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I – uh, yes?” John had that hunted look that men often had when asked to agree to a statement about their wives that they weren’t sure they should. What a shame Mary wasn’t there to see it. It was hilarious.

“And yet, it isn’t the high end brands she chooses to acquire – rather, she spends hours sorting through outlet stores and bargain bins, looking for the cheapest, most ridiculous-looking ones she can find. A delightful little study on the perversity of human nature, don’t you think?” He clasped his hands behind his back. Point well made, he thought.

John frowned. “Well, I don’t know that she prefers the cheap ones, I think it’s more that we can’t afford – ”

“The same phenomenon can be found in observing your blog,” continued Sherlock, talking over him.

“Are you – did you just compare my blog to discount shoes?” demanded John.

“We have been involved in many high profile cases over the years, and yet the ones which receive the most hits, and in fact, the ones you waste most of your time on, are the most trifling and trivial of all of them. QED – people don’t enjoy high art, they like what is everyday and banal.”

“Cheers, Sherlock. Very flattered,” said John, with a sigh. “And I couldn’t write about half the ‘high art’ ones anyway, thanks to your brother and the Official bloody Secrets Act.”

John always took things so very personally. He turned around impatiently. “Oh, it wasn’t meant as a criticism. At least the boring ones give a proper demonstration of logic and rational thought, despite the purple prose.” He grimaced.

“Yeah, definitely not criticism.”

“I defer, as always, to your superior literary judgement,” he said, turning now to the window.”

John said nothing, but Sherlock knew he was probably rolling his eyes. Definitely rolling his eyes, in fact.

“Besides,” he added. “You can’t be entirely held to blame. We get so few interesting cases these days…” It had been so long since he had encountered any proper kind of puzzle. Everything was obvious and almost self-explanatory. He had been reduced to a pointer-outer of things that should have been apparent to anyone with a working brain. Dull, dull, dull. “Nothing but missing persons and suspected adulterers and straightforward homicides. What next, lost pens? An advice column for love-struck teenage girls?”

“Well, maybe if you’d treat the operation trying to track down Moriarty seriously – ”

His jaw clenched. “You can’t track down someone who’s dead!” he snapped. “Moriarty is dead, I saw him kill himself, therefore he is _not_ _back_.”

John slammed his laptop shut. He had stopped looking anxious or offended. Whoops. “I saw you jump off a building, Sherlock. I watched you kill yourself. And yet here you are.” His voice was frosty with quiet anger.

Would he never stop bringing that up? Really, you’d think he’d be over it by now. “Oh, not that again. You didn’t see me die, you just thought you did. I saw him. I saw him pull the trigger. I saw a piece of his brain floating in his blood! I will not continue to run around on fool’s errands for Mycroft, especially after this last one, just because he’s credulous enough – ” Sherlock broke off, peering at John’s frown. “Ah. You think this woman is connected to Moriarty somehow. Well I can tell you right now, she most certainly isn’t.”

“Even _if_ she isn’t, she could be part of his network – ”

“The network I spent two years shutting down!” Honestly, did no one have faith in his ability to have accomplished _this_ without failing?

“Alright, alright,” said John, slumping back in his chair. “No Moriarty. Now, can we focus on the real problem?”

“Hmm, yes. I suppose you and Mary have any number of enemies that she could be connected with.”

“Oh, great. I really feel better about this whole situation now.” John shook his head. “You really need to work on your reassurance skills.”

He would be put off no longer, it seemed. Very well. “Run me through the facts of the case again. Precise chronology, every detail, whether you think it relevant or not.”

John sighed, but sat up straight and began the narrative once more. “In June last year, you made some sort of crack about my height and deduced that my ancestors came from a mining town in the southwest.”

“Of which I have no recollection,” he interrupted, halting his strides. “And that is one detail I _do_ consider extraneous to the matter at hand.”

“Well, I think it _is_ necessary. None of this would’ve happened if you could’ve stopped your damned smart-arsery for _once_ – ”

“Continue,” said Sherlock hastily. Best not to redirect John’s ire towards himself.

“So, I decided to prove you wrong for once, so I hopped on one of those genealogy sites and put myself in.”

“And you found - ?” he prompted.

“You were right,” John muttered, looking away. “Which you already knew, and is definitely unnecessary.”

Sherlock disagreed, but hid his smile. “Go on.”

“Anyway, I got a bit interested despite myself, and I started looking up the rest of my family, and then – ” He swallowed. “And then I looked up Mary. She told me not to. But bloody curiosity got the better of me, didn’t it, and I looked her up anyway.” He remained silent for a moment. “Imagine how surprised I was, how – _excited_ – I was to find a girl, a relative of hers, with no death date next to her name. I didn’t say anything to her. I thought she hadn’t wanted me to search her because it was too painful for her, knowing that she was on her own. I didn’t want to upset her more if she got her hopes up and it turned out not to be right. So I wrote her – the girl, that is.”

“When?”

“July – a week or two before the wedding. Of course, _now_ I know. She’s no relative of my wife’s. She couldn’t be. For all we know, she knows that Mary isn’t – isn’t – ”

“Isn’t really Mary,” finished Sherlock. “And you received no reply to your letter.” He frowned, and resumed his pacing. 

“None whatsoever. Until last week.”

“When you received an email from a woman claiming to be Victoria Vance, Mary’s first cousin once removed, in which she said she was interested in meeting you both. Which you did, last week.”

John nodded slowly.

“Your impression?” He sat opposite his friend and leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand.

John pulled a face. “There’s something off about her.”

“Can you describe it?”

He hesitated. “She seems perfectly nice,” he said finally. “But it always feels like she’s – trying too hard, or something. Like she’s hiding something.”

“As she may well be,” said Sherlock, mostly to himself. He glanced at John, and realised with alarm that the latter had his head in his hands. Oh dear.

“Every time. Every time I think we’re safe, I think that we’ve seen the last of our problems, something new comes up. And Christ,” he groaned, “why is it always my bloody fault?”

Pointing out that it was most likely John’s lack of foresight and his inability to realise that his wife was an ex-assassin living under an assumed identity which were the root causes of his problems was unlikely to be well received, or even helpful, he felt. Especially considering that he too had failed to see that Mary had much darker depths than he had realised, a fact which continued to wound his personal and professional pride. He still hadn’t managed to discern how she’d concealed them – but he hadn’t given up yet.

He coughed. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t here when this all…happened. I should’ve been there to meet her.”

“Well, you _were_ on a mission of ‘international significance’,” John replied, with a small smile. “It’s not bad, as excuses go.”

“A mission of international time-wasting, you mean. But John – ” He paused.  “You do realise – whoever this woman is, you will be protected. All of you.”

“Yes. Of course.” John looked him in the eye, his expression serious. “And it means everything.”

It was a pity and a shame, he thought sadly. The most interesting and promising case he’d had for months, and he could take no pleasure in it. Mary was too thorough to have assumed an identity with a close-ish living relative attached, so who exactly was this girl? What did she know? What did she want from them? Was she a threat? But the stakes were too high for the joy of the problem to mean anything at all. There was so much potential here. But in the face of John Watson’s fear, there was no sweetness in the anticipation; only the bitterness of his own dread.

The front door opened and shut, and John jumped in his seat. “That’ll be them.”

Sherlock could hear Lizzie’s cries, and two female voices. One was Mary’s, the strain unmistakable even from here. The other was a stranger, quieter and barely discernable. Then, an unfamiliar tread upon the stairs.

The game was on.

A tuneless whistle preceded the entrance of the woman he considered to be the most dangerous person in their lives right now. Moriarty and his network, they had had faces, stories and motivations; Magnussen had been unpredictable and disturbingly capricious, but in the end he had been eliminated…surprisingly easily. This girl was an unknown quantity. He inhaled deeply and shifted in his seat. He was ready. The door opened, and there she was.

 

_Short-sighted_

_Ambidextrous_

_Cellist_

_Nervous_

_Mathematician_

Genius

 

Her slight figure and stature, coupled with the bright expression of her blue eyes, gave her a child-like demeanour, though he placed her age at twenty-two. His eyes moved up and down and across; it might have looked like interest on another man, but to him it was merely the most efficient manner of collecting data. After a few moments, he allowed his eyes to meet hers once more and bestowed upon her his most charming smile. His reputation had likely preceded him, as it often did – it was of the utmost importance that if she was a threat, she did not consider him to be the same. 

He stood and extended his hand. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said smoothly. “Pleasure to meet you…?”

John jumped up. “Sherlock, this is Victoria Vance – well, Tori. Cousin of Mary’s.” His tone was neutral with a tang of warmth, but Sherlock saw his distrust in the pinch of his nostrils. Easy now, John, he thought. You can’t afford to let her see the fear.

“Don’t call her that,” he said aloud.

“What?” came John’s ever-predictable reply. Why did he never understand the first time? He displayed no symptoms of deafness, but for some reason always requested repetition. It was most perplexing.

“Don’t call her Tori,” he repeated, studying the young woman’s expression. “She doesn’t like it.”

John turned to her, frowning slightly even as he smiled. “So sorry – you should’ve said something.”

Victoria flushed a light pink. “Oh – I didn’t – I didn’t want to seem standoffish or anything, it really doesn’t bother me…”

“Hmmm. No, I rather think it does.” Sherlock had noted that while his voice remained light and pleasant, anxiety and confusion were screaming out of John’s body language. If this woman was some sort of professional, he was practically throwing valuable information at her. He had to leave the room, now.

“Tea please, John,” he said, trying to sound careless and returning to his seat. “Don’t let it sit stewing for half an hour this time, I’d prefer it drinkable.”

John huffed but complied without any comment save to ask Victoria if she, too, would care for a cup, and left the room muttering. Good. John was normally an amplifier of his talents, but his emotional involvement in this case would make him a distraction, to say the least. It really was best that John and Mary stayed as far away from this as possible. Obviously to seem distant and cold would only appear suspicious – as he imagined an orphan like Mary should be delighted to learn she had family living – but to allow her into their house! Far too dangerous. They should have brought her to Baker Street. Then she would’ve fallen – albeit unknowingly – into the role of client, and they’d have a much better handle on the whole damned situation.

“You really are just as rude as you seemed on the news,” she said in wonder, tilting her head to the side, and neatly derailing his train of thought.

He was right, she’d heard of him; but that barely registered. Her speech had startled him. Small talk? No, too blunt. Sounded like an observation he might make, so it was definitely out of the scope of normality. An odd remark to make, then. John was right, too. There was something not quite normal about her.

“Quite,” was all he managed in reply. “Notoriety always suited me better than fame.”

Now _she_ looked startled, as though unaware she’d spoken out loud.She made no comment, her confusion evident on her face. Excellent; now he was in control. Time to keep her off balance, to keep her a step behind. Push her onto the defensive and he’d soon see what he needed to know.

She took a step towards the sofa and knocked one of the photos off the side table, barely managing to catch it before it hit the ground. She glanced at him, still blushing. “I’m not usually so uncoordinated, I swear…”

“Oh, no harm done. Besides, there must be almost twenty frames in this room alone.” 

“Twenty-three, actually,” she said looking around.

He regarded her curiously. Compulsive counting? Interesting. “I was unaware Mary had any family living,” he began, genial as can be. “I imagine it must have been quite the surprise for everyone involved.”

“Well, yes,” she said, blinking. “I thought I was all alone in the world, now. But then I found Mary – and John, too – through that ancestry website – ”

“Of course, John’s quite the amateur genealogist,” he said dryly, tilting his head back to better survey her. This, _this_ was what he had been longing for: the chance to question and examine and observe and solve. “But then, how on earth did you not find each other before now?”

She laughed, a little nervously. Not the reaction he had expected. “A good old-fashioned family scandal, I’m afraid. My grandmother – Mary’s aunt – was illegitimate, a by-blow of _her_ father’s. She wasn’t brought up with her siblings, or given their father’s name, I think – all very hushed up. So it’s not so surprising, really.” She shrugged.

“Indeed.” He fought the urge to relax as his interest began to fade. She was perfectly ordinary, he was certain. He wondered even if he’d mistaken the extent of her intelligence; she was beginning to bore him. But given the way he had wildly misjudged Mary, he felt that he should at least be thorough. He probably owed it to John to screen the rest of his acquaintance more thoroughly for psychopathic tendencies. “So what’s brought you to London, Victoria?” Before she could open her mouth to reply, he continued. “You’re not just here to see John and Mary, evidently. You’ve been living in Cambridge, studying there – you just completed your undergraduate degree – ” He paused. “No, a Master of Mathematics, very impressive. But Cambridge is barely an hour away, easy enough to make a day trip, and you can’t afford to stay in London, not just for the sake of seeing a relative you’ve never met before. But staying in London you are. Why?” He turned to her.

Ah, there it was. The usual amazement, shock and disbelief, as gratifying as ever. She looked impressed, too. His interest renewed a little. It was always so tiresome when people took offence to perfectly innocuous observations. “Did John tell you all that?” she asked, almost faintly.

“Nope.” It was mostly true. John _had_ mentioned the maths, but that was a detail. Besides, he would have seen it anyway. Surely.

“Well, I moved to London to look for a job,” she said slowly. “I wasn’t having much luck, but I got an offer this morning – actually, I was going to – ”

Good, he’d thought so. “The kettle boiled several minutes ago, and yet John hasn’t returned,” he interrupted, tossing her another smile, less charming this time. “Back in a minute.” He left the room without another glance at her.

Downstairs in the kitchen, John was feeding Lizzie some sort of unappetising-looking yellow substance – custard? Banana? Who knew what it was supposed to be – whilst Mary sat at the kitchen table, staring at an untouched cup of tea.

Sherlock frowned and pointed at the tea. “Where’s mine?”

John looked up. “On the bench. Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt…”

“Oh, that.” He waved his hands. “Finished.”

“Already?” John appeared startled, and not altogether impressed with his efficiency. Well. He could show a little gratitude, at least. “So?”

“Not a threat,” he scoffed, gulping down the tea and reaching for his coat. “Likely to bore you to tears I imagine, but that’s your prerogative I suppose…” He caught sight of the somewhat dubious glance John and Mary were exchanging. “Oh, please. I was thorough, I promise.”

“You spoke to her for five minutes! You call that thorough?” Mary cried in exasperation.

John made a hushing gesture, glancing towards the ceiling uneasily.

“She’s twenty-two, for God’s sake – ” began Sherlock.

Mary stood up, and walked around the table to stand in front of him. “She’s old enough. Do you want to know how many _assignments_ I’d _completed_ by the time I was her age?” she asked in a low voice.

He sighed, and with a glance at John, put his coat back down.

“Grew up in the north of England, the only child of wealthy middle-class parents. Older, middle-class parents, I should think. Her father died, oh, about ten years ago and she still misses him, but her mother’s been dead for barely three months and it doesn’t seem to bother her nearly as much – possibly because they hadn’t spoken in more than three years, more likely because their relationship was strained: her mother expected and demanded a lot of her but rarely bestowed affection or even approval. She didn’t make many friends at school, and even fewer at university – quite the loner. She’s nervous – oh yes, she’s _desperate_ to please, frantic for your approval. She was even worried I wouldn’t like her, though I don’t know why she’d bother – ” He broke off.

Mary was looking noticeably more relieved. But John was making a series of rather odd expressions, and casting pointed looks over Sherlock’s left shoulder. He turned around. Victoria was standing in the doorway.

She did not look upset or embarrassed or offended, or anything else that someone might reasonably appear after overhearing such an unflattering description of themselves. Rather, her eyes were alight, with what looked like barely contained excitement. This was unusual. Unprecedented, even. “How on _earth_ did you know all that?” she breathed.

Finally, he recognised her expression. It was one he knew graced his own face regularly. It was the burning desire, the _need_ to understand. The thirst to know. So he ignored John and Mary’s warning glances, and launched into his explanation.

“The first part was easy – your accent and way of talking tells me everything I need to know about your upbringing. That wristwatch you’re wearing – it’s clearly a man’s. It’s far too big and much too heavy for your wrist, so you must be wearing it for sentimental reasons. The smaller holes on the band show some wear, so you were much younger when you started wearing it – your wrist has grown since then. You can’t have been more than twelve or thirteen going from the size difference, so he died about ten years ago. You obviously still think about him because you’re still wearing the watch – it’s an impractical and uncomfortable accessory, but you’ve persisted in wearing it for years.

Now, your mother, that’s quite a different story. Before when we were talking, you said you were ‘all alone in the world, now’. You said ‘now’, so your mother, your last living relative, must have died recently. That word usage suggests it happened sometime in the last six months; the fact that you responded to John’s letter a month ago tells me it was within the last three – you took a month to sort out her house, to where John’s letter would’ve been addressed, and then another month to decide to reply to it. So she’s barely been dead for weeks, yet you didn’t flinch when you referenced the fact that your family were gone. Nor are you wearing any jewellery of hers like you do for your father – as is often the case, what people don’t do is more telling than what they do.

You have callouses on all four fingers of your left hand. So do I. So like me, you play a string instrument. Not the violin – their size and angle mean you play, or played, the cello. For quite a long time too, more than ten years I’d say. But I heard you whistling before, and you can’t carry a tune to save your life; there isn’t a musical bone in your body. So why did you persist with it? To please someone else. Only a parent would be gratified by that sort of display, so you played because your mother wanted you to. That’s your relationship with her in a nutshell. You played an instrument for years despite the fact it didn’t appeal, but she didn’t care enough about your feelings to let you do something you enjoyed. No wonder you don’t miss her.”

“Not good, Sherlock,” muttered John. Sherlock ignored him.

“It’s easy to see you’re nervous – there are little creases on the hem of your shirt, at the sides, because you tug on it. Nervous habit. Why are you nervous around John and Mary? Because you want them to like you. You’re looking for the affection and approval you never got at home. You didn’t get it from your peers, either – the way you talk shows you don’t spend much time around people your own age. So, you had very few close friends at school, and even fewer now – why else would you want to get in touch with a first cousin once removed you’ve never met? Where you studied was obvious, too. ‘Mathematician’ may as well be stamped on your forehead – or rather, your hands. Paper cuts and grey smudges say you work with pencil and paper a lot, but the way dress definitely rules out artist. Your automatic, almost subconscious counting of the photos in the living room is a clear indicator of a deep affinity with numbers. So, a very clever girl, a mathematical genius, with a background like yours – could only be Cambridge.” He cleared his throat. “Did I miss anything?”

Mary was shaking her head in exasperation, but she was smiling. John was rubbing his temple, still holding the little plastic spoon of yellow goo. Lizzie seemed vexed that no one was paying attention to her, and was attempting to grab it out of John’s hand. Victoria was staring at him, lips parted, practically glowing with admiration. _That_ was more like it.

“Well? Any mistakes?”

“Oh – no,” she said quickly.

Hesitation. Damn. There must have been something. Ah well. He reached for his coat again.

“Oh, don’t feel like you have to leave on my account,” said Victoria, still wide-eyed.

Alas. He’d acquired a new fan. But he chuckled. Relief, coupled with his success in deducing her, had put him in a much better mood. “Don’t worry, I’ve plenty to do. Brothers to antagonise, policemen to hound, clients to screen…”

“But that’s just it! Mr Holmes – ”

“Sherlock, please.”

“Well, Sherlock – I have a case for you!”

He paused once more. “A case? What sort of case?”

“The job offer I received this morning. It seemed a little, well, strange.” She tugged slightly on the edges of her shirt.

Not interesting. Probably. “Hmmm. In what way?” He picked up his scarf and wrapped it around his neck.

“It just sounds…too good to be true.” She frowned.

“Probably is then.” He wondered if Mrs Hudson could be persuaded into making him a sandwich back at Baker Street. And a coffee. Perhaps a biscuit?

“What’s the job, then?” John asked, twitching the spoon just out of reach of his daughter’s grabbing hands. She’d have it in a minute.

Sherlock sighed. Only John would be kind and polite to the woman who innocently threatened everything he held dear.

“It’s as a live-in tutor and babysitter in Hampshire. One eight-year-old, just a few hours of child-minding and teaching each day. Full board, no housework required…”

Mary shrugged. “Sounds like a good deal to me…?” she said, looking at John and Sherlock.

“I don’t have any experience though! And my only qualifications are in high-level maths! I have no idea how to teach!” protested Victoria.

“Maybe they’re having trouble getting anyone?” suggested John.

“I suppose they have made some unusual requests – ”

“Seems likely, then,” agreed Sherlock, stooping to kiss his goddaughter on the head. “Mary, John, I’ll see you tomorrow night – ”

“Mr Holmes – I mean, Sherlock – they’ve offered me five hundred pounds a _week_!”

Once again, he stopped and turned towards her. There it was. Finally. Slowly, he unknotted his scarf. He exchanged a glance with John, who was oblivious to the mess his daughter was making with her lunch.

“Mary – ”

“Yes, you can borrow him.” She smiled and shook her head, and retrieved the still-laden spoon from John’s hand. She was clearly relieved to be able to prevent further mayhem from occurring during lunch. “Go on, boys.”

He turned to John, excitement already bubbling in his blood. This was going to be a good one. He knew. And when he saw the ghost of a smile flicker across John’s otherwise serious expression, he knew that John knew it too.

 

 

The three of them were soon ensconced in the living room once more; this time, John in the armchair, Victoria on the sofa, and Sherlock standing by the window. The tension hadn’t left the room, but it was now of a different quality – less anxiety, more excitement. The effect of being the hunters instead of the prey, he supposed.

John was tapping the end of his pen against this notebook. His fears seemed to have been assuaged for the moment, but Sherlock knew there’d be more questions later. He had to stifle an urge to laugh laugh. One of the few people who might ever even notice that Mary Morstan should not be alive, let alone married with a baby, was sitting on the sofa before them. And now they were taking on her case! Ah well. The sooner the case was dealt with, the sooner she’d be on her way, presumably.

John coughed.

Sherlock blinked. “Right, yes, off you go,” he said, waving a hand at her.

“I’ve been looking for a job for a few weeks now – since Mum died. I hadn’t been having much luck. I’ve never worked before, I have no qualifications except my BA and MMath – and for any of the jobs I’d actually _want_ to do I’d need my PhD…”

He interrupted. “Why not get it, then? You were top of your class, you could’ve done.”

John’s features rearranged themselves into the _how could he possibly know that_ expression. 

She faltered. “Oh – I – I didn’t feel like pursuing that right now.”

Interesting. John cast him a glance. Even he could tell it wasn’t the whole story. But it seemed irrelevant to the case before them. He brushed it aside. “Hmm. Go on.”

“So I’d advertised on a few different sites – I thought maybe I could do some maths tutoring for A level students, a bit of child-minding, something like that.”

He cut in again. “Why not just get a job in a shop?” Working in a shop would be boring, of course, but then in his experience, most work was. Not everyone could be a consulting detective, after all, and John’s glazed expression whilst talking to some of his colleagues told Sherlock everything he needed to know about job satisfaction even in supposedly ‘vocational’ fields.

John frowned at him. “Stop interrupting for a minute, will you? Let her talk.”

Victoria, for the first time since he’d met her, looked irritated. “I didn’t want to work in a shop – besides, almost all of them want experience in retail. I thought I’d make a good tutor. And I like children!” she added, almost defensively.

He shrugged. Again, irrelevant, he supposed. “Go on.”

“Last night, I received the first reasonable offer I’ve had so far. A man contacted me, Jeffrey Castle, asking if I’d be interested in a position as a tutor and nanny to his eight-year-old son over the summer. I’d have full board, plenty of free time and I wouldn’t have to do any housework. It sounded ideal.” She paused, as if waiting for another interruption, but he made no comment. At last, they were getting to the interesting part. She went on. “But then…well, then it got a bit…weird. He seemed really friendly, almost a little too much so. He said he really wanted to me to feel like ‘part of the family’, that they would love to include me in all their activities and routine, if that was all right be me? Of course, I replied. Then he said that his wife was a very fashion-conscious woman, and that she loved shopping and would probably want to take me out to get to know me before I came down. I said it sounded lovely, but I probably couldn’t afford a big shopping spree; he replied it would be their treat. I was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable by this point. I told him I couldn’t accept anything of the sort, but he just laughed and said that money was no object. Then – then he told me the rate they were willing to pay. Five hundred pounds! I really felt like I couldn’t refuse, even if they were a little…eccentric.”

“But then he said something even stranger,” he interposed. “Something which unsettled enough to make you reconsider.”

She nodded slowly. “He asked if his wife could meet me Saturday morning, to see if we suited and to go shopping. I said I couldn’t, because I’d decided to get my haircut. I was about to suggest I reschedule the appointment, but then he got – strange.”

Aha. “He didn’t want you to cut it.”

She looked up in surprise. “Why, yes, that’s exactly it. He started off by asking why I’d do a silly thing like that, my hair was so long and gorgeous.”

John frowned. “How did he know what your hair looked like…?”

Keep up, John. “You would’ve posted a photo with your profile.”

“Is that really wise?” asked John, glancing between them in concern.

She shrugged. “It’s a requirement of the site. To protect their clients, I assume.” She tugged the tie out of her hair and it spilled around her shoulders. “I suppose it is nice hair, but I never meant it to get so long. I just…forgot about it. But it was getting in the way, so I thought it might be nice to just get rid of it…”

 

_Looking for a fresh start_

_Running away from something_

It _would_ get in the way. He could certainly see that. It was long, thick hair reaching just to her waist, and a rather unusual shade of white blonde. It was so fair it seemed artificial, but it was certainly her natural shade. Interesting. “What else did he say?" 

“He started telling me how beautiful it was, that it was “princess hair”, and what shame it would be to lose it. I was even more freaked out by then. Then he changed tacks, saying that it was his wife who’d seen the picture, and that she’d thought I was really pretty and that my hair was lovely, and that she’d be so disappointed if I cut it. I told him I couldn’t take the job, and eventually he got the message and ended the conversation.”

“So what changed your mind? Something must have, otherwise you wouldn’t be asking for our help. What’s different now?”

She hesitated. “He – he wrote to me this morning, saying that they were desperate to have me and were willing to pay _more_. Six hundred and fifty pounds a week!” Her eyes were filled with something akin to desperation. “I can’t say no. I have to take it.”

He surveyed her curiously. “You would happily walk into a dangerous situation like that? For _money_?”

“Then you think it is dangerous? Why, what do you think’s going on?” she said, alarmed.

He sighed loudly. “I don’t know. Not enough data; can’t make bricks without clay. Besides, if we could identify the danger, it would cease to be so. Wouldn’t you say, John?”

“What? Oh, yes. Probably.”

Thank you for giving this your full attention, John. He turned to Victoria. “Well? Would you really put yourself at risk like that?”

She looked down. “I have to work. I need the money.”

His lip curled. Just when he’d been starting to warm to her. “Money. How boring.”

“So is starving!” she snapped.

He failed to reply, taking in the slight hollows in her cheeks and tiny wrists, a more extreme version of the typical underfed-uni student look. He had really never had to face that decision, nor could he ever remember a time when food had not been available if he’d wanted it. Going hungry had always been a choice for him.

John broke the silence. After giving him the look. “What is it exactly you want us to do, Tor- I mean, Victoria?”

She looked at her hands, folded in her lap. “I don’t know,” she admitted, looking a little helpless. “I suppose I mostly wanted the reassurance that it _was_ odd and it wasn’t me who was being unreasonable. I’m determined to go – but, well, it would be…comforting…to think I could contact you if I ran into trouble?” Her voice was imploring, her eyes filled with hope as she stared at him, almost begging.

“Yes, of course you may. John and I will come down at once should you need us,” he assured her, ignoring John’s protests. There was something utterly disarming about her gaze. Besides, a case that took them out of London would be good for them both. And John could never be trusted to look out for his own best interests.

“Oh, thank you, thank you so much.” She stood up, relief shining out of her face. “ I’d better be on my way. So much to do before I go – I’ll just say bye to Mary and Lizzie on my way out. It was lovely to see you again, John,” she said, taking his hand with a smile simultaneously engaging and vulnerable. “And Mr Holmes – Sherlock – it was a pleasure.”

He heard that phrase not infrequently, but so often they were empty words, the product of social convention and masking barely-concealed dislike. Rarely was it genuinely expressed, especially not after his average rate of unintentional slights. So perhaps it was not just the thrill of a case that brought an answering smile to his own face. “All mine, Miss Vance.”

After she had left the room, John turned to him. His expression was concerned, but at last it wasn’t for himself and Mary and Lizzie. Good. The morning was a success for that then, if nothing else. “What do you think? All seems a bit…odd, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock sat down. “I wouldn’t let my sister take on that job – if I had one, obviously.”

John’s eyebrows flew up. “Really? That bad? You think we’ll hear from her, then?”

He looked up, a frown creasing his forehead. “I’ll be worried if we _haven’t_ heard from her by the end of the week.”


End file.
